November 4, 2003
Branded
Carrie slides a slip of paper onto my desk, edges torn, delicate:
"Help! Help! I'm being repressed!"
I stifle the choking laughter that comes barreling up from my stomach at the appropriateness and frivolity of the phrase. Professor Sadoff continues to lecture on something a) no one cares about, and 2) holds little relevance to the class. Here is my 200-level English course discussing how to make a strong claim in one's research paper. Here is me, contemplating suicide. Or just walking out.
I pass a note back to Carrie:
"Come and see the violence inherent in the system!"
And Carrie to me:
"I thought we were an autonomous collective?"
If only, if only...
I must say I've just about had it with college. Or, at least, this semester's dismal English courses, both taught by aforementioned Sadoff. She's an intelligent woman, that much is evident. She just suffers under the delusion that all of her students recieved lobotomies before entering her class, and we need remedial composition.
Well, some of them probably do. But fuck me I don't.
You know, Mike's right. I am in a pissy mood.
astera at 9:15 p.m.